you think you saw mother mary in line
at the deli the other morning
she was young, but so tired
looked jewish [she was originally]
with premature grey in her hair
and a toddler wrapped around her waist
she was talking to lakshmi

(you can recall the word, the face, the language
from a place called india
where your best friend got married at thirteen
had a baby boy named hussein
because calcutta still wouldn't let the russians in
your blonde haired canadian momma had a gun held to her head
by a man swearing she was from moscow
when you were just old enough to remember
india
in the heat, the dust, the multi-mirage pools
where you first saw a laksmi
all gold and red, wisdom power)

you overheard them
talking about heaven
mary said it was boring
'if you think osiris is dull,
you should meet a few of these saints.
even at the throne of god, they can't tear themselves away from prayer.
can't stop talking about how good heaven is.'
laksmi tilted her heart shaped face
you were suddenly reminded of a boticelli,
of tanned glory and almond eyes
she said, 'the problem is opinion,
you can't listen to other's
by forcing yours out.'

silence was their virtue
soft-spoken holiness between the hummus and pita chips
two goddesses on earth, bound by heaven
bound by experienced cynicism
thus proving god has a sense of humor